Chapter 253

I tore down Rue de Rivoli, swerved past Boulevard Haussmann, and headed for the 8th arrondissement, probably breaking half a dozen traffic laws along the way. My car screeched to a stop in front of the Hôtel Plaza Athénée. I jumped out, tossed the keys to the valet, rushed past the smiling concierge trying to greet me, and jabbed the lift button. Lea's screams still rang in my ears. She had sounded terrified on the phone. There hadn't been time to think—just act. The lift crawled upwards. Agonizingly slow. When the doors finally opened, I stepped out into a softly lit hallway, carpeted, perfumed, and decorated to tasteful perfection. But no amount of piped jazz or high-end fragrance could cover the drunken yelling or the reek of stale booze. Pierre Marchand was slamming his fists against the door of room 602, knuckles bleeding onto his monogrammed shirt cuffs, not that he cared. I grabbed his shoulders and spun him around to face me. Even flushed with rage and alcohol—and whatever else